


Until Some Other Day

by Sproings



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, M/M, Pining, Soul Bond, Soul mate, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, soul marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sproings/pseuds/Sproings





	Until Some Other Day

He smiled when he saw Steve's mark for the first time.

Smiled as he turned to ice and flame.

Whatever had been forced through his veins back on that table had burned just like this. He had survived it, and he'd survive this too. He'd find a way to be happy for Steve. And as for Steve's shiny new potential soulmate ...

No. He'd never find it in himself to be happy for her. Acceptance was the best he would ever be able to manage, and that was going to take some work.

Nobody ever said soulmarks were fair.

His own mark was on the bottom of his foot. If he'd ever told Steve about it, they would have laughed about it being his _sole_ mark, but he never had.

Steve didn't have a mark. Not back then. Not on his real body. Not on his slender arms, his crooked back, his bony ankles or his narrow chest. Nowhere on that perfect broken body was there a mark that would tie them together.

At first he thought it would have been more appropriate for his own mark to be on his fists, as often as he ended up using them. Fighting wasn't really what it was about though. He wasn't made to fight for Steve. He was made to follow him. For all the good it did him.

He didn't mind. Didn't mind that he was always on his feet for Steve. That his mark was incomplete. It seemed a little ironic that the mark was bigger than average, but he supposed there was no irony in it now. It had always been Steve. It would always be Steve.

The mark on his foot was blue. The blue of cornflowers. Of forget-me-nots. Of eyes that saw too much, but never quite enough.

If soulmarks were fair, Steve's would have looked like a blue-gray mark on a pale shoulder blade, right where Bucky's palm used to fit.

Not the ruby red of her lips on an oversized deltoid.

Everything about it was wrong. Nothing about it was fair.

Steve brushed his fingertips over the mark and looked up, wide eyed.

Still smiling at Steve, still frozen and burning, he wished he could say something, maybe apologize for what happened in the bar, before he knew ...

He didn't say anything. Just punched Steve's unmarked arm and finished getting ready for bed.

Buried his face in his pillow so Steve wouldn't see when he finally stopped smiling.

* * *

* * *

Seeing Bucky again ... He had forgotten about the serum for a moment and wondered if his heart was finally giving up on him, before he realized that it was actually the opposite. They had both been a little busy, getting Bucky off that table, out of the torture chamber, out of the HYDRA base, but he felt the burn when Bucky touched him, and he knew. A mark. A real mark, after all this time.

He had thought about it a lot, ever since they were kids, wondering what it would look like, where it would be.

Of course it would be red. That went all the way back to the beginning, to a busted nose and a split lip and a shared bout of laughter over an unprecedented schoolyard victory. He hadn't been able to see the color fully back then, but he knew what it meant. He knew that blood was the color of birth, the color of brotherhood, the color of sacrifice. He knew that their lives had become suddenly and irrevocably entwined.

He never expected it to be on his shoulder. He had thought maybe it would be on his fists, because he would fight the world and everyone in it for James Buchanan Barnes. But on the long road back from Azzano, every step they took, they bumped against each other, just there.

Side-by-side, the way they were always meant to be. He was finally strong enough to earn a mark to share with Bucky.

He had been so excited to see it. So stunned to find that it was formless. Incomplete and unearned, like the smile Bucky was giving him.

But maybe ...

Now that his heart knew how to beat and his lungs knew how to breathe, time wasn't such a terrifyingly precious commodity anymore.

They'd figure it out eventually. He was sure of it.

* * *

* * *

He got used to Steve's new body faster than he would have expected. He still missed the old one, but this one had its own sort of beauty. It'd keep Steve from catching polio, at least. Keep him from breaking his fingers with that shield of his. Protect him in ways that --

It wasn't bulletproof, though, and he wished its owner would realize as much. Until then, he kept close watch through his scope.

* * *

* * *

He turned and gave Bucky a quick, non-regulation salute, a wordless thanks to the man who'd saved his life so many times.

Bucky always had his back. Soulmates or not, he knew he could count on that. Next time they got a moment of quiet, he should tell him out loud.

They were nearly there. A few more missions and the war would finally be over. Everything would be better, then.

* * *

* * *

Sliding onto the train was the most terrifying moment of his life.

Until he ran out of ammo.

Until he picked up Steve's shield.

Until the blast threw him aside.

An eternity flickered by, and he lost everything.

The sky over the mountains matched the color of Steve's eyes, fading, fading, far away above him.

* * *

* * *

They say that it's better to let it fade.

Even a complete mark, a true mark, they say it's wrong to hold on to it if ...

His mother showed him, once. She lifted her hair and showed him the image of a soft, pale flower with a bright spring leaf. The flower of a cherry tree, she explained. His father had proposed under one, and she had accepted, and he had touched her just there as they kissed. She felt it shift, she said, from a blur of green into this.

The words 'until death' meant nothing to her after that.

As the plane tipped down, the light through his eyelids glowed red, red, red.

* * *

* * *

He was wrong.

He hadn't lost everything.

Oh, but he learned to wish that he had.

* * *

* * *

There was a moment, before consciousness, when his frozen mind believed that he had made a wish, and the wish had come true. He'd been thrown back in time, just a few years, to a ball game, and sunshine, and Bucky.

It was a lie.

The air was wrong. Sterile, but not with the sharp antiseptic tang of a hospital. It was processed, dry and cold.

It sure as hell wasn't the air of Ebbets Field, or anywhere else back in Brooklyn.

A hollow pain, in his chest and shoulder, was all the reminder he needed that Bucky wasn't at his side.

He opened his eyes anyway. There was nothing else he could do.

* * *

* * *

The Russians had etched the arm with a star.

The Americans had never asked why.

Blood. A red mark on the deltoid. Unacceptable, even mid-mission. The pause to clean it had resulted in harm. Wasteful.

The star appeared. Attempts to remove it were punished. Better behaviour was learned.

He held it close, unsure of what it meant.

A red mark on a deltoid.

A whisper of memory.

* * *

* * *

He helped save the world again.

It was no more satisfying than last time.

There wasn't even the cold embrace of ice afterwards.

* * *

* * *

Injuries happened.

The sole of his right foot. Every time. He made sure of it. Burned, bruised or bloodied. Never enough damage for his handlers to catalogue. Only enough to ...

He turned his mind back to the mission at hand. Killing, at least, was something he understood.

* * *

* * *

Like so many other things, soulmarks were apparently 'old fashioned' now. They were supposed to be covered, with clothes or makeup. Hidden with scarves.

It was bullshit like this that made him want to tear all the sleeves off his shirts.

He would have done it too, no matter how much Stark might laugh. If the mark was complete. But it wasn't, and it never could be, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to stand either the mockery or the sympathy that would come with revealing that. He'd gotten too close to punching Tony in the face already, over things he cared about far less.

There was a swirling emptiness inside him, vast and deep, covered in pristine snow, and he wouldn't let anyone else near it, for fear that it would swallow them, too.

Hope took years to arrive, and when it did, it felt like a betrayal.

Red and white wings, bright against the dark skin of the jogger's calf, and he knew, somehow, that he'd found someone who might understand.

And then Natasha called him away.

* * *

* * *

He tracked the target. From the wreckage of the suv to a sterile apartment. A safehouse?

No. A safehouse should not have music.

Not like that.

No.

Another man. Helpfully gave away the target's position. Not so helpfully gave pursuit.

He ran. He fought.

The sole of his right foot burned and burned.

* * *

* * *

If anyone had ever thought to ask, he would have said he didn't have anything left to lose.

That was before he saw Bucky's eyes, lost and afraid and not Bucky's at all.

Nobody had ever thought to ask, but his answer would have been wrong. So wrong.

* * *

* * *

a mission, a fight

a hand on a shoulder, blood on snow, golden hair, fever sweat, red mark, cornflower eyes

falling, falling

dragging up from the water

a cough, chicken soup, rattling breath, camphor, last rites, please stevie don't go

running, writhing, buried in whispers

* * *

* * *

Just inside his front door, Steve froze in place, staring.

After two years, Bucky was right there, hunched into a corner of the couch.

Resisting the urge to pinch himself, Steve went through his normal routine. Jacket on the hook. Keys in the basket. Shoes under the table. He turned and took a deep breath.

"I stopped looking for you."

"I know." Bucky glanced around at the exits, then back down at his knees.

"I still wanted to find you. But the more I tried, the more I thought that you should have the chance to make your own decisions for once, and ... I tried to let you." Carefully telegraphing his movements, Steve eased into the seat on the opposite end of couch from Bucky. "I'm sorry, if it was the wrong choice. I wish I had found you."

"No, you were right. I had to ..." He waved his hand around his temple. "Figure myself out."

"And take down a bunch of HYDRA bases with no back-up," Steve said, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky met Steve's eyes then, and flashed a little smile. "Yeah, pal. That too."

In spite of himself, Steve whispered, "I missed you."

The smile fell off Bucky's lips, and his eyes flicked away, down to the floor.

Christ, why did everything have to hurt? Steve closed his eyes for a second and tried to breathe, but he opened them again as the couch shifted from Bucky's movements.

Bucky was yanking his boots loose and toeing them off. Once that was done, he peeled off his sock and twisted his foot up onto his thigh, effortlessly graceful and --

There was a bright blue mark along the arch of his foot. Formless, but definitely there.

"What?" Steve breathed.

"Been there since ... well, before I can remember, which I guess ain't saying much. Before the war, though. Before you got all huge."

"You remember that? Growing up? Being friends?"

"Some. Enough to know I shoulda told you about this."

"Damn right you should have." Steve scrubbed his hands over his face, still trying to piece everything together. Trying to piece himself together, and mostly failing.

"It's the color of your eyes," Bucky said, his voice steady and sure. "I don't care anymore, that you don't love me back. I gave up on that a long time ago. I'm not asking --"

"I do," Steve blurted out, feeling like he was a mile behind in this conversation. "I do love you back."

Bucky blinked at him, and Steve recognized that look, had seen it a thousand times, at the start of every argument they'd ever had. Steve yanked up his sleeve to show his own mark. "I thought you knew. From what the files said, I thought maybe your star was, I dunno, something to do with me."

"Um, maybe?" Bucky stared hard at the mark, as if willing himself to remember.

The files said that he had scrubbed at the star until his fingers bled, and long after, until he resorted to hitting his head on the wall of his cell for days on end, screaming and screaming.

Steve had screamed too. He had curled into a ball and wept, before he forced himself to go on reading. He'd owed Bucky that much, and a hell of a lot more.

Finally, Bucky shook his head, more in confusion than negation. "Look, Steve, I -- What's wrong?

"I, uh. Fuck. I don't remember the last time I heard you say my name."

Bucky didn't look fooled, but after a second he tilted his head and slowly smiled.

"Steve."

He reached out and brushed his fingers over Steve's hand.

"Stevie."

Leaned in close.

"Steven Grant --"

He sat back, eyes wide. "Holy cow, your ma used to call you that."

Steve huffed a surprised laugh. "Yeah, so did yours, whenever we were up to no good."

"Must've said it a lot, huh?"

"Yep. Steven Grant and James Buchanan. We were always getting into trouble, and getting each other out of it." Steve tried to laugh, but didn't quite make it. "God, Bucky, I didn't get the mark 'til later, but I've been yours since the day we met."

"Did you ever tell me?" He asked it with perfect sincerity, because he really didn't know.

"No." Steve said. "No, it was --"

"Asshole." Bucky grinned and gently shoved Steve's elbow. "You were as bad as I was."

"I know," Steve said, grinning back and shifting closer to Bucky.

"Why not, though? Why didn't either of us say anything?"

"I was waiting for the right moment, but things kept happening, the war and the serum and ..." He looked down at the blue smear on Bucky's foot.

He wondered if Bucky would let him touch it. Let him smooth his fingertips over it. Let him warm it with the palm of his hand.

Almost in a whisper, he went on, "I don't want to wait anymore. But if you need time, I can give you that. I'll give you anything."

Bucky shot him a crooked smile. "Think I've had enough time."

It was unexpectedly awkward, hugging Bucky from across the couch, their arms knocking against each other's as they tried to negotiate whose would go where.

It was wonderful.

Steve pressed his nose against the crook of Bucky's neck and tried to sort out the new soap smells that had replaced the scent of pomade and bay rum aftershave. Tried to just smell Bucky, his skin and sweat and even the faint hint of metal from his arm.

Bucky pulled him closer, and Steve shifted to let him, dropping his hand down like he had wanted to before, sliding it over the mark on Bucky's foot.

Oh.

It was like a gear falling into place, the smooth satisfaction of two parts fitting perfectly together, with Bucky's hand curling over his shoulder at exactly the same moment.

Bucky drew a sharp breath. "That was --"

"Yeah." Steve raised his head so he could see Bucky's face, sweetly surprised and happy, but falling into something else.

"Hey, if it didn't work --"

"Of course it worked," Steve said, but before he could move his hand and look, Bucky caught his wrist and held him in place.

"I wasn't in my head all the time, Steve, I don't know what kind of things I did to it when I was covering it up."

"You tried to hide it?"

"Well yeah, but I didn't know why."

Steve nudged him. "Because you love me, dumbass."

Bucky laughed and blew out a breath. "I do love you. No matter what's under there, I love you. This doesn't change anything."

"Okay." Steve nodded. "Right. I love you too. No matter what. Now can we look?"

"Kiss me first."

"What?" Some part of Steve was convinced he'd heard that wrong, and he felt like he'd lost his breath.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "You called me a dumbass, I deserve a kiss."

"Well, you were being a dumbass."

"You really wanna argue --"

Steve kissed him, pretty badly at first, since he was still talking, but it settled into a soft lingering press of lips, Steve reaching up to cup Bucky's cheek while Bucky slid a hand down to the small of his back and held him close.

Barely pulling away, Bucky murmured, "All right, we can look now."

"Sure," Steve replied, and surged in for another kiss, fiercer, deeper, so much hotter. He twined his fingers in Bucky's hair, licked into his mouth, moaned gently against his lips while Bucky gathered the back of his shirt in his fist and and bit at his lip.

"Christ Steve," Bucky sighed.

"You ready to look?"

Bucky kissed him, hard but close mouthed and quick. "Yeah. Ready."

Steve looked down at his shoulder. Concentric circles, like his shield, but in blue, surrounding Bucky's red star.

The mark on Bucky's foot matched it exactly.

While Bucky looked down at it in wonder, Steve bent over and brushed his lips against it, making him twitch.

"Still ticklish?" Steve asked, his lips still on Bucky's skin.

"You're lucky I didn't kick you in the face."

Steve stroked his thumb over Bucky's mark, roughly enough to make him clench the arm of the couch and growl in the back of his throat.

"I am lucky," Steve said. Bucky lunged at him and pressed a searing kiss against his shoulder, and Steve groaned, "So fucking lucky."

"That's what you think," Bucky said, running his fingers over Steve's mark. "You don't know where my foot has been."

Steve rolled his eyes. "In your boot. Besides, I can't get sick." He leaned in for a kiss, but Bucky leaned away. "You can't either."

"It's the principle of the thing," Bucky said, and he bit his lip in an obvious attempt not to smile.

Steve pouted. "But I deserve a kiss."

"Why?"

"Because I'm in love with a dumbass."

Bucky laughed. "Well, I can definitely relate to that."

Steve leaned in again, and Bucky pulled him closer. But instead of kissing him, Steve looked into his eyes, amazed at all the longing and affection he saw there, a mirror of his own. Bucky cupped his cheek, and Steve held him tighter.

"I'm sorry for making you wait so long," Bucky said, with a catch in his voice that made Steve ache.

Clint and Bruce had both warned him, that there would be apologies that he wouldn't want to hear, that saying "It's not your fault" wasn't going to work. But neither of them had offered ideas for what to say instead.

Steve pushed on and did the best he could. "Hey Buck, you know why your mark is on the bottom of your foot?"

"Don't you dare," Bucky said, the sadness slipping away for now. "I waited ninety years to make that joke, you better not say it before me."

"Oh, come on, eighty five years at most --"

"Because it's my _sole_ mark," Bucky said triumphantly.

"Because it's your sole mark." Steve repeated with a grin. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

Steve curled against Bucky's chest and clung to him.

For once in his life, he was going to hold on to what he needed, and not let go.


End file.
